Nervous Exhaustion
by spiderstan0spiderstan
Summary: He'd had night terrors when he was little. He'd been able to outgrow those. In which Peter can't sleep and Tony... helps.


Peter woke to the feeling of suffocation.

His room was too hot; the air was warm, gluey, something he had to drag into his lungs. Coupled with hyperventilation, it made his head swim.

He couldn't see the door frame, or the window, or hear the sounds of traffic that drifted up from the street. For a moment, he blinked dumbly into the darkness, wondering why he couldn't see. Then, he remembered. He wasn't at home. None of the landmarks of his bedroom were there in the first place.

"Would you like me to turn the lights up, Peter?"

Despite the friendly tone, the disembodied voice sent a jolt of panic through him. Peter nodded, and the room filled with a dull, red-shifted glow. The lights had dimmed until ten, mimicking a sunset, then shut off completely.

In the dim lighting, designed to prevent the production of melatonin, Peter could see that his hands were shaking.

He felt like an idiot.

When he'd been trapped under the rubble of that warehouse, a section of the building's steel skeleton had pressed into his spine, just between his shoulder blades, sharp enough to tear his suit. He'd been dreaming of that moment, with that element pushed farther- the sharp edge breaking in between his vertebrae, pinning him to the ground.

It wasn't real. He knew it wasn't real, and therefore shouldn't have had his heart racing and chest tight. He should have at least been able to breathe.

He curled up in Tony's gigantic guest bed, slowly wrestled his breathing back under control. As the panic faded, so did the lights, in an effort to lull him back to sleep.

It really should have worked. With the rush of adrenaline dying down, Peter was incredibly tired.

The day had started at six in the morning. Just before sunrise, an army of grey-green humanoids had erupted from the sewers and became a crush of chaos that dragged him through nearly twenty hours of action. Exhaustion had engulfed him, a heavy, smothering thing like smoke. It burned in his eyes and turned his limbs to lead.

He thought of the things he'd spent the day battling. He still saw the empty flats of their eyes, every time he closed his own.

It wasn't going to stick. Not much did, in the day-to-day.

Peter rolled over and inhaled the lavender scent of the silky sheets. Fabric softener, probably. Rich people things.

He missed May.

Every time he spent the night outside of Queens, he wondered. He had seen Manhattan almost leveled in the space of an afternoon- and there was no way to guarantee his home would still be standing when he got back. No way to be sure of anything.

Sometimes, on nights like this, he'd snap awake to the smell of blood on concrete. Taste the ashy tang of gunpowder in the air. Nightmares where he died were a lot easier.

The worst part was, he knew how ridiculous he was being. It'd been a one in a million chance the first time around and probably even smaller the second. He needed to get over it.

He hadn't been home for patrol. That was probably it. Just a lack of information; just missing out on a habit. Little things, making him anxious. Nothing to be ashamed of.

At home, in the bottom of his closet, there was a battered teddy bear with a flat, round key sticking out of its back. Inside was a music box, just the hard edges just palpable through the fur and cotton.

Peter was almost sixteen. Almost old enough to drive. Sleeping with a stuffed animal was pathetic, and it had been for a while. He'd had it since he was a baby- an example of how babyish it was, really- and been all but conditioned to fall asleep to that , it was the only thing that helped.

He needed to break that habit.

He'd had night terrors when he was little. He'd been able to outgrow those .

Peter ran his hands through his hair, made fists. Tugged the soft strands. The day's fight had done something awful, but ultimately irritating, to his right wrist, and the movement ached.

"Everyone else thought I was crazy to recruit a fourteen-year-old-kid."

Tony had said it to his face, and the logic was sound. Children were a weak spot. They needed to be protected and coddled and kept from breaking.

Peter was Spider-Man. He was not a child.

Maybe everyone was right. Maybe Tony had made a mistake.

At this point, most nights, he'd be pacing. But he didn't have the extra energy to burn off- just the sharp ache of anxiety, twisting in his stomach and worming up into his chest.

He moved to stare into the distant corner of the room, where the shadows were too deep to see through. He felt as though he'd been hollowed out, a pricking ache against the inside of his skin.

There was nothing to do but wait. Because Tony would know if he left the room, and Tony couldn't know about this.

He couldn't know that it was getting worse.

Peter burrowed deeper into his blankets. He could hear his heartbeat.

There was something almost ironic about it. Someone had once said there was nothing to fear but fear itself, and it made a great quote, but they'd neglected to mention how scary being scared could be. There were consequences to being irrationally afraid, too many to fit on a kitschy poster.

At least this was quiet. At least he was alone.

Until the door opened.

A widening angle of light yawned across the floor. The door scraped, plastic on carpet.

"Kid?"

Peter lay very, very still. Took slow, deep breaths as Tony padded across the room in his sock feet.

"I know you're awake," Tony said. "Friday told me."

Normally, at night, people spoke quietly. May whispered. Tony Stark was above such things. He sounded irritated, harsh, almost, if only in contrast to the soft hum of electronics in a building that didn't go to sleep with its inhabitants.

"Why do you care?" Peter hissed it, mostly into his pillow, something sharp and cold twisting behind his sternum. He knew exactly why, and now it was just a matter of time.

"Jeez, you're grouchy." Tony sounded too casual. Too calm. "Fri says your vitals suggest distress. Are you distressed?"

"No," Peter told the pillowcase. This was it, then- the moment when everything raw and weak and infantile about him was dragged into the open. His eyes stung with the threat of tears. "I'm okay."

" Right. " Tony said, and the sarcasm alone was enough.

Peter was crushingly ashamed of the sob that escaped him, then. He pressed a hand over his mouth, like he'd swore.

Tony sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Okay," he said. "Come with me."

They were out in the corridor- in the light- before he spoke again.

"What's up?"

Peter kept a hand over his mouth, tried to stay quiet- as if that would make things better. Like there was a way to do this with any sort of dignity.

"No, seriously." Tony pressed. "Are your injuries bugging you? Do you need me to call somebody?"

Peter shook his head, gagged by the lump in his throat. Tony spun to face him, walking backwards.

"Kid, use your words," he said. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."

It felt like interrogation. Tony was a commanding presence, even in pajamas, and there was no good alternative to giving up. Keeping his mouth shut would make Tony mad.

"Can't sleep," Peter mumbled. Fewer words gave his voice less time to crack and embarrass him. "Nightmares."

It felt like being five years old and admitting to wetting the bed. He wanted to fall through the floor and disappear forever.

"Is that all?" Tony was trying to sound sympathetic, but the confusion sept through; he didn't know Peter as a crybaby, yet. Most of them didn't.

"I-" Peter caught his breath, gritting his teeth. "I can't fix it. Normally I can fix stuff but I keep trying and trying and I can't fix it ."

Tony stopped dead, sliding his hands into the pockets of his silk pajama pants. There was a strange contrast in the little embroidered sailboats and the man wearing them.

"Fix it," he said, with a shaky sort-of smile. "Oh, Christ, kid."

Peter waited for the moment the shoe dropped; waited for the anger to kick in.

"You didn't-" Tony scrubbed a hand over his face, in something like frustration. "You don't just fix it, kid. That's not how it works. God, this wasn't supposed to happen with you. I wasn't supposed to let this happen to you."

It took a minute to hit. A minute to chug through the machinery of Peter's mind. The barbed undertone of disappointment only delayed the realisation.

"I…" he sounded pathetic, and was cripplingly aware of that. "I'm not-"

This was forever.

Sleepless nights and pacing and staring out the window in class waiting for the sky to split. Forever.

Another gout of tears, with less control this time. Crumbling, all over again.

Peter realised that he'd been holding out. Relying on the idea that he would wake up someday and feel better. That respite existed somewhere other than atop the city skyline, helping people. That he could be something other than anxious or occupied.

He was breathing in hot, quick gasps, like he was drowning- and that was how it felt. Like the pressure of an ocean crushing his chest in; cold and consuming.

"Jesus…" Tony muttered. "Okay, just... when you're done crying, we'll talk about this, okay?"

Peter nodded, shame twisting in his gut. He was being embarrassing ; too much of a mess to even interact with.

And he didn't know how to make it stop .

He gave up, then; slumped back against the wall and sank to the carpeted floor. He hugged his knees to his chest, tears soaking into the fabric of his pajama pants. He was edging the moment of too much sensation, between the lights and the humming electronics and the heaving ache in his chest.

Tony Stark had not signed up for this. Peter was supposed to be an ally, not dead weight.

It felt like a betrayal- because Tony had put so much hope and time and money into him. Because the suit alone was millions of dollars of time and technology- wasted on someone who cracked under the slightest hint of pressure.

Peter lifted his head to wipe his nose on his sleeve, and became aware of Tony's navy blue socks. Became aware that he was still being watched.

It still took minutes to get his breath back, to scrape himself back together and look almost stable. When he rocked back to his feet, Tony was waiting, frantically tapping on his phone screen.

"You done?" he asked, looking up. Peter nodded. "Okay. Good. Follow me."

They traipsed through what seemed like endless corridors to the kitchen. Peter focused on the unfinished, half lived-in state of the compound- the pale, nondescript carpets and colourless neutral-tone walls, like the inside of an office.

"I'm not mad at you," Tony said. "I'm just… sorry. That you're having nightmares. And all that… shit. It's not your fault. It just happens sometimes."

There was a sharp undertone- suggesting that this happened, sometimes, to people who failed to prevent it.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," Peter said. "I didn't-"

"You just need something constructive," Tony interrupted. "It helps if you have something... I build things. And that helps. It's being constructive that does it. Takes your mind off it, you know?"

That sounded like what being Spider-Man did, or was supposed to. It countered the anxiety, normally. It didn't cause it.

Even with that armour, Peter had still failed.

It wasn't fair. Not for either of them.

They reached one of the kitchen areas, and Tony turned on the lights above the breakfast bar. Peter dropped into one of the plastic stools, rested his head on the cool marble. It was easier to just listen; at times like this, the intensity of his senses meant he was raw and defenseless- constantly teetering on the edge of overwhelmed.

He heard the sound of a glass bottle being opened. Liquid being poured.

"You're getting cocoa, don't worry," Tony said, when Peter moved to look, with his hands pressed over his ears.

Peter had seen the news before. He'd traced Tony's life in the way that all of society did- and he wasn't that sort of stupid.

He was the sort of stupid that pushed people back into old, dark, dangerous places, it seemed.

"How-" Peter rubbed his eyes, exhausted by the outburst. "How am I supposed to be okay with this?"

The microwave clicked shut in, too loud in the near-silence of the night.

"I can't hear you when you're talking to the table, Peter."

"How am I supposed to be okay with this?" Peter was just keeping his head above water; balanced on the thin ice above another breakdown. "I mean- if I can't fix it. What am I supposed to do?"

Tony looked pained.

"You...cope." he said, carefully. Sipped the amber liquid in his clunky square glass. "Because in this line of work, you don't really have any other choice." He made sloppy gestures with the glass, like he was presenting it to a focus group. "Stopping doesn't really help. You get used to it eventually."

"Oh." Peter said.

It seemed almost ludicrously dismal.

The microwave dinged. Tony took out a steaming mug, and poured in a packet of powder, put the milk back in the fridge.

"It's better than I'm making it sound," he promised.

"Is it though?" Peter muttered. The emotionality of the moment was starting to leave him, and he felt hollowed-out, drained by it.

"Yeah. it's just… scary, at first." Tony pushed the mug across the marble tabletop, and Peter took it. Frowned at the clumps of brown powder where it hadn't been stirred enough. "Drink that, it'll help you sleep."

Peter did so.

It was almost overwhelming- the warmth and sickly sweetness, cut only with the slight relief of peppermint.

Maybe that was why it took him so long to connect the dots. The faint suggestion of an aftertaste, and something like regret in Tony's eyes. Two bottles on the counter, rather than one.

By the time it clicked, he couldn't even be angry- his head was already too fuzzy.

Tony wasn't wrong, though.

It did help him sleep.


End file.
